Master and Beloved
by Elusiel
Summary: Sam's second night in Tol Eressëa. A continuation of the story "In the Undying Lands". Slash.
1. Chapter 1: What Master Means

_This tale is a continuation of my story "In the Undying Lands", which deals with how Sam arrived in Tol Eressëa, how he was reunited with Frodo, and their first day together. Places (such as the elf city of Avallonë and Minuial Tirn, Frodo's clifftop house) are described in greater detail there. However I chose to publish this as a separate story rather than to add it on to the end of the first one in the form of a new chapter, because while the first story will be enjoyed by fans of all sorts (both shippers and non-shippers), since it can be interpreted as either a very close friendship or something more, this one is unambiguously slash. Therefore it gets its own special place. Also, there is a break of about a day between the ending of the first story and the beginning of this one – this is Sam's second night in the Undying Lands. In the time between the two stories, Sam and Frodo spent time with the elves, feasting and telling tales of Middle Earth. I daresay at some point I will write this section (and probably I'll add it to "In the Undying Lands"), but for now I'm more interested in what happens after. _

_I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!_

The last songs of the evening had been sung. Storytelling was over for the night, though the elves would have listened to Sam's tales until dawn, if Galadriel had allowed it. Instead, the hobbits were allowed to return home a little after midnight, after a promise had been extracted from Sam that he would return on the morrow and tell them more of what had passed in Middle Earth.

After making their farewells to Galadriel and her company, the hobbits walked back through the moonlit streets of Avallonë and climbed the stair to Minuial Tirn. They spoke little, for Sam's voice was weary after his long tale-telling, and Frodo was content to walk in silence.

Soon they reached the house, and saw the lamplight glowing from the windows. Sam smiled.

"It feels like home already," he said. Frodo was delighted.

"I'm glad, Sam. I so want you to be happy here."

"Oh, you needn't worry about _that, _Mr Frodo."

They went inside, and down to the back room of the house, where the evening breeze blew gently between the carved trees which formed an archway to the lawn overlooking the sea.

"Are you hungry, Sam? You didn't eat much tonight I saw – the elves kept you talking so much. Let me fix you some supper."

"Thank you Mr Frodo, but I'm not that hungry," said Sam. "If you must know, my chief concern right now is getting out of these ridiculous robes. Hobbits weren't meant to dress like elves, that's clear – begging your pardon - though you wear it better than me." He lifted up the long silk sleeves in exasperation. Frodo stifled a laugh.

"You must forgive them, Sam. They truly meant to do you honour."

"That's as may be," said Sam darkly. "But tomorrow I'll be wearing a weskit and breeches, honour or no." He went to the fireplace and retrieved a nightshirt from his bundle of belongings.

"There's a washroom this way," said Frodo, and led him down a southward passage. At the end of the passage was Frodo's bedroom, and on the left, a door led to a spacious washroom and water-closet. Here Sam got changed, admiring as he did so the graceful fretwork on the walls and the carvings around the windows.

When he came out, he found Frodo in the bedroom, hanging up his heavy ceremonial robe in a carved wardrobe. He too had changed; into a long nightshirt of fine linen which hung loosely on his shoulders. He smiled, taking Sam's crumpled robe, shaking it out and hanging it beside his own.

Sam shifted his feet. A question had been weighing on his mind, but he felt awkward about raising it with Frodo, lest a misalignment of expectations cause them both embarrassment.

"What is it, Sam?"

"Well – begging your pardon – but where am I going to sleep? Are we going to sleep on the grass again, or is there another room or –"

"Oh…" Colour flooded Frodo's face. "I hadn't known when you would come, so I hadn't – that is, I assumed… It's your choice. There are spare beds, if you want, or – whatever makes you happy."

Sam hesitated. "Would you be happy if I slept with you? In your bed, that is?"

"Yes," said Frodo softly. "Yes I would."

Sam let out the breath he had been holding unawares. They held gazes for a long moment.

Frodo spoke quietly. "It's been long since we took the road to Mordor, but I will never forget how safe I felt lying at your side."

"There's nothing to be afraid of here, is there Mr Frodo? Nothing that I need to guard you from?"

"My dear protector... No, there are no dangers here. But even in the blessed realm there is no shield against loneliness. The night is gentle and the winds are kind, but an empty house is cold and silent, and no quilt of silk and down suffices to tether me when I feel adrift and weightless in a sea of stars, when the darkness swells on all sides and all certainty is lost in the measureless depths and I see nothing but endless solitude stretching beyond the ending of all worlds…"

Sam saw with consternation that as Frodo made his little speech, his eyes widened and his gaze grew fixed, as though he stared into a void. "Master!" he said. "Frodo!" His friend started, as if recalled from a place of fear. His breath came quickly.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said, trying to smile. "It's a foolish unreasonable feeling, I know."

Sam shook his head. "My poor master," he said, filled with pity. "You don't ever have to feel that way when I am here. And I will never leave you now, in life or death."

Frodo's face twisted, and tears came into his eyes. He made a sound that was half a sob, and going to his friend, he threw his arms around his neck and buried his face in the shoulder of his nightshirt.

"What did I ever do to deserve you, Sam?" he whispered.

"My dearest master…"

"No," said Frodo suddenly, lifting his head and looking Sam full in the face. "You never have to call me that. You are my equal, and always were. My friend of friends, my courage, my strength. The best of all I am. Never my subordinate."

Sam's arms tightened around him, holding him closer. "I know that – that I didn't have to call you master, that is. But – dearest Frodo - I didn't use it to mean I was lesser than you. When I call you my master, I mean that you are the foremost in my life, and that you are mine to care for and serve – not because I have to, but because I want to. I call you master because what I feel for you is different from the love I feel for anyone else, woman or man, in Middle Earth or out of it. I have had many friends who have come and gone. I have – had – a wife – and children – and I will always love them. But I have only ever had one master, and it has always been you."

As Frodo stared, unable to speak, Sam lifted a hand and gently brushed the tears from his friend's eyes. His manner turned suddenly brisk and cheerful. "Now it's time you were asleep, Mr Frodo," he said. "Go on, into bed. I'll be along in a moment". He steered the wide-eyed Frodo to the edge of the bed, and Frodo sat down without protest, his face working. His throat was tight, holding speech back. Sam bent and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll be along," he said again, then turned towards the door and the passageway leading to the washroom. As he crossed the threshold he heard Frodo's voice behind him.

"Sam."

He paused, hand on the lintel, and looked over his shoulder. Frodo lay propped up on one elbow, a silhouette against the lamplight. His face was shadowed.

"What is it, Mr Frodo?"

"You – you understand, don't you, why I had to leave? It – it wasn't because I didn't – because I didn't _care_…"

"Yes, I know," said Sam quietly. "I know."


	2. Chapter 2: Reflection and Epiphany

Relieved, Frodo lay back, listening to the footsteps going down the hall. While he waited for Sam to return, he studied the ceiling – the arches, carvings and slim star-windows more familiar to him now than the ceiling of Bag End. He tried to remember exactly how his old room had looked, but the details eluded him, slipping and shifting out of focus. He realised again with an accustomed lurch that he had spent more than half his life on Tol Eressëa. _How many days, how many nights? _The years had blurred and time had passed him by. Days slipping easily into each-other. _What did I do a week ago? Two years ago?_

A few events glimmered in his memory – his arrival, the sight of Aman from the top of the Tower of Avallonë, exploring the island, building the house, the first fruiting of his garden – and in between, stretches of peaceful routine and quiet pleasure. Sixty years in pleasant stasis. Waiting. _And yet the memories of the Quest of the Ring burn bright as ever. Horrible as that time was, I lived more in that one year of hell than in my sixty years of peace. Why? _Was it that here he had had no purpose giving meaning to his days? _But the elves find meaning enough – pursuing knowledge, creating things of beauty… _Had he not done this? Yes, he had spent uncounted hours perusing books of lore. He had gained knowledge beyond that of Middle Earth. Songs and poems he had written, and by his labours had created a beautiful garden. And yet…

_It is not enough to pursue knowledge for its own sake, _he thought. _Songs must be heard. Beauty must be shared. _The elves themselves were ready companions in the search for learning, and ever-eager to appreciate works of craft and labour. _They see the artistry, the skill – beauty that calls to their shared memories. _But though Frodo had derived pleasure from sharing his work with a coterie of high-minded aesthetes, there had been something lacking. _Art is more than just creating something for strangers to admire. It's a baring of the hidden self. "See, this is what I have done. This is what I am." But for the elves, my art is a mirror. They don't see me. How could they? Immortals as they are, how could they ever understand the desires, fears and strivings of a short life? _

Frodo rolled onto his side, facing the long arched windows at the end of the room. A salt breeze stirred, and the curtains moved like ghosts. The boat of the moon sailed in the east, casting a path of radiance across the water. _Everything I've done here – everything I've created, has been done in the hope that one day he would come and I could show him the parts of myself that I've never been able to express in words. "See, this is who I am – this is what I want to share." _

And now the time of waiting was at an end, finally. The stasis was over. Sam was with him again, for good. But what was the weight of sixty years? Before the reunion, Frodo had feared that the memories that burned so vividly in his own mind would have dimmed during the course of Sam's eventful life on Middle Earth. He had feared they would be – not strangers, but unfamiliar to each-other. But it had not been so. From the first moment, Sam had looked into him and recognised everything that Frodo had wanted to say. His love had not changed, rather Frodo understood it better for what it was – infinite, unshakeable and unchanged by time or distance.

Alone in the bed, Frodo trembled, then wondered at himself. The knowledge of Sam's unconditional love filled him with a kind of fear. _No matter what I do, he'll love me. Whether I'm worthy of it, or no. _Strangely, the removal of all doubts was frightening. It was freedom. It was nakedness. He stood at the brink of an immensity that awed him, and felt his last defences torn away to nothing like a veil in a high wind. No limits. No need to withhold. Was he prepared for it?


	3. Chapter 3: Embracing the Infinite

He shut his eyes as Sam re-entered the room. If Sam noticed the rapid rise and fall of the sheet clutched around his master's shoulders, he gave no sign. He padded quietly across to the lamp behind Frodo's head, which formed one of a pair of lights twining like luminous flowers at each end of the bedhead. Reaching up to cup his hand around the flame, he blew it out gently. Turning from the task, he saw Frodo staring at him, and saw that his eyes (which had refused to remain closed) no longer shone with tears, but were calm and steady and filled with certainty. Sam smiled at him, and walked quickly around to the second lamp, making sure it was extinguished before he slipped between the sheets beside his friend.

The room was still – the silence broken only by the sound of quiet breathing and the faint whisper of waves.

Frodo rolled onto his back, feeling the warmth of Sam's presence all down his side. Reaching out in the dark, he clasped Sam's left hand with his right, and drew it to his lips. Sam stiffened, letting out a quick, fierce breath. He interlaced his fingers with those of Frodo and pulled the maimed hand to him, bringing Frodo onto his right side to face him. They lay thus for several moments without moving, breathing quickly. Sam felt his master's heartbeat pulsing through the tight-held fingers.

Laying his free hand against Sam's cheek, Frodo studied the face so close to his own. There were some superficial changes – record of a life well-lived – but in essence nothing was altered. It was his Sam.

_"Master _Samwise,_"_ he murmured. Sam chuckled at that, but Frodo spoke gravely, stroking his friend's hair.

"Everything that is mine, or that will be mine, I give to you," he said. _My heart is yours. _This last he did not speak aloud, but it seemed to him that Sam understood his meaning. His right arm slipped around Frodo's waist and with the other he pulled their clasped hands close and held them to his breast.

"Master…" he whispered.

"Beloved."

Tangling his fingers in Sam's hair, Frodo grasped the back of his head, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

At the touch of Frodo's lips on his, Sam was overcome with a surge of feeling at once familiar and strange. He gasped and clutched at the back of Frodo's shirt. Frodo drew back his head and looked Sam in the eyes. In the look was a question.

"Yes," said Sam.

The next kiss was longer and more urgent. Sam opened himself to it. Releasing his hold on his master's hand, he slipped his left arm beneath Frodo's side - lifting him to lie against him, breast to breast, hip to hip.

"Frodo…"

"Sam – oh my Sam…"

With each kiss Frodo felt the love swelling inside his chest, until he was like to burst from its painful glory. Sam's mouth tasted of mint and the sweet herbs of the Shire. His arms were strong, holding Frodo tightly. The warmth of his body was like sunlight.

At last Frodo raised himself on his arms, looking down at his beloved. And it seemed to Sam that the starlight shone from his master's face, and his heart nearly broke with the beauty of it. But Frodo dropped his head to Sam's chest, overwhelmed by the force of his emotion.

"I love you," he whispered. "Oh how I love you."

Sam's heart was too full for speech. He kissed Frodo's hair; caressed his back and sides. This slender vessel of fire. This living body in his arms.

Gently he took Frodo by the shoulders and turned him onto his back. Frodo gazed up at him and awe swept over him.

"It's always been you," he said. "All my life, I –"

But Sam stopped his mouth with his own, rendering him speechless.


End file.
